Spooktacular: Fun times in the graveyard

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Wochit

This particular event happened around Halloween back in the Dark Ages of the early 1980s. Being children of the Black Belt, there were always plenty of spooky places we could go when we wanted to chase ghosts, explore haunted houses or traipse through long abandoned graveyards. One of our favorite haunts — sorry — was Old Cahawba. It is a ghost town just west of Selma. It was the site of Alabama’s first capitol and was a thriving antebellum river town.

A series of floods and yellow fever outbreaks drove the population away. There’s a state park there now, but back when the band of hooligans I grew up with were teenagers, it was very much deserted. And spooky. And creepy. And posted against trespassers. Making it all the more attractive for late-night exploration.

We parked the trucks off the county road and started our adventure in the “old” cemetery. Being chased off by live folks never concerned us. But it wasn’t just a lark we are talking about here. The area was in such a state of disrepair, there were several open graves. So, you had to watch where you walked. Pretty soon, several flashlight beams were crisscrossing the graveyard, reflecting off the Spanish moss hanging from the trees.

Just then the wind picked up again, blowing leaves and causing tree limbs to creak and groan. The flashlight beams stopped crisscrossing.

“Uh, just for fun, which way back to the trucks?” Stan Wheeler asked, with a nervous catch in his voice.

“You scared now, Wheel?” Curtis said, only to get a shove himself.

“We gonna stand here all night or what?” Ray Roberts asked. Curtis snorted and took the lead. He walked two, maybe three steps and all of a sudden there was all sorts of crashing and commotion going on just outside the comforting arcs of the flashlights. It was probably a bedded down deer making its escape. But…

Annnnddd, we’re off.

The group scattered like a covey of quail, flashlights bouncing and bobbing as we hot-footed it outta there. There was a lot of cussing. And a few squeals of terror. Curtis and I stuck together, as usual. We sprinted for a while, looking for the quickest way out of the graveyard.

“Stop, stop stop!” Curt heaved. “I gotta catch my wind.”

“Which way to the trucks?” I asked him, hands on my hips trying to take in more air just in case we had to bolt again anytime soon.

“(Expletive deleted) if I know,” came his answer. “I’m all turned around.”

Just then, about 100 yards away, there went one of us, running and crying.

“That’s prolly Stephen,” I said.

Curt snorted and took off after him.

“If we die tonight, I hope it’s not before I get a chance to punch him in the mouth,” Curtis called, picking the pace up.

I followed, as usual.

About 15 minutes later, we all gathered up back at the trucks. Stephen must have sensed what was going on, because he stayed just outside of Curtis’ reach. We piled in the trucks and drove off. Curtis was mad the rest of the night.

I didn’t know if it was because we got spooked, or because he missed the opportunity to clock Stephen.